At precisely 3:03 AM every night, the same haunting melody poured from the auditorium of New Haven School of Music. Room 42, a modest performance hall tucked in the east wing, had been sealed for over a month. And yet, the Steinway grand piano inside sang on.

No living fingers touched those keys.

No soul dared approach.

It began three nights after Aurora Leigh’s funeral.

She was a prodigy. Seventeen. Blonde hair like haloed light, eyes that seemed to read through sheet music as if born from it. She didn’t just play—she embodied the sound. Her final recital was a masterpiece. Until she collapsed mid-performance.

Cardiac arrest, they said. Tragic, rare, inexplicable. Her parents refused autopsy. The school canceled classes for a week. Her piano was left untouched. Covered.

Until it played again.

No one wanted to admit it at first. The security guard, an older man named Rick, simply noted “strange echoes” in the nightly log. Janitors thought it was air vents or pipes. But by the sixth night, when the same composition played again—note for note, the exact piece Aurora had died performing—fear began to spread.

Room 42 was locked, lights off, cameras glitching at exactly 3:02 AM.

By 3:03, the melody began.

It lasted 4 minutes and 19 seconds. Then silence.

The school installed new security cameras, aiming directly at the piano.

They caught nothing.

No one entered. No one left. The piano moved on its own.

Dr. Margo Thorne, the headmistress, tried to explain it away—”Pre-recorded audio leaks”, she claimed. “Interference from cell towers.” But even she avoided the east wing after dark. Students whispered of Aurora’s ghost, forever replaying her final performance. A musician trapped in a loop.

The only person who didn’t flinch at the rumors was Mateo Grey, the overnight janitor. He was 63, a retired Marine, and didn’t believe in ghosts.

But on February 14th, Valentine’s night, something changed.

Mateo arrived at 11:30 PM, as always. He was early, meticulous. He cleaned the floors in the west wing, mopped the lobby, polished door handles. At 2:45 AM, he walked toward the east wing.

His cart wheel squeaked.

The hallways were silent.

And cold.

Too cold for mid-February in California.

As he neared Room 42, the motion lights flickered, then died. He sighed and grabbed his flashlight. But before he could switch it on, he heard it.

A single note.

Then two.

Then the full beginning of Aurora’s final song.

He froze.

The piano was playing again.

Heart steady, he took out his phone. He turned the corner toward Room 42. The heavy door stood shut, but under it, a faint white light glowed.

He pressed his ear to the door.

Music flowed with impossible clarity. Not just notes, but emotion—regret, longing, pleading.

Then he heard her voice.

A whisper. Female. Breathless.

“Help me.”

His breath caught in his throat.

He pushed the door.

It creaked open without resistance.

Inside, the piano glowed faintly in the darkness. Aurora’s sheet music lay scattered on the floor. The bench was empty.

But the keys danced.

Mateo stepped inside, one trembling foot at a time. He whispered, “Who’s there?”

No answer.

Just the final chords of the song.

Then silence.

And then—every light in the room blazed to life.

The piano slammed shut.

Mateo fell to his knees, clutching his chest.

From the far corner of the room, a mirror—covered for weeks—cracked.

In its fractured surface, he saw her.

Aurora.

She stood behind him.

But when he turned, the room was empty.

He fled.

The next morning, staff found Mateo sitting outside Room 42, eyes wide, lips sealed, unable to speak a word.

He never did again.

Doctors said his vocal cords were fine. His brain scan showed no trauma. But Mateo refused to speak. Just stared ahead. Sometimes he hummed. Always the same song.

Room 42 was permanently sealed that day.

But the melody never stopped.

Locals walking by at night swear they hear music drifting from the building. Tourists leave flowers at the east wing doors. Aurora’s recital is now part of the school’s whispered history. No one performs her song anymore.

Except her.

Every night.

At 3:03.

ENDING NOTE:
There are rumors that the school tried replacing the piano. They brought in a new Steinway, moved the old one to storage. But the very next day, the new piano was found cracked open, with Aurora’s sheet music spread neatly across it. The old piano? Gone. Vanished. No one ever found it again.

They say music, like memory, refuses to be silenced. And some performances, no matter how tragic, never end.